


I Could Try

by Arcwin



Category: Greek Tragedy, Greek and Roman Mythology, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art, BAMF John Watson, Crossover, Depression, Horror, Illustrations, M/M, Orpheus and Eurydice Myth, POV John Watson, Pining John, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock's Violin, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-21 01:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16149503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin
Summary: John is grieving Sherlock's death post Reichenbach until one day, he sees the violin case, and something inside him tells him to pick it up.He sits entranced, for as long as he can, before something shifts inside him and he rises. He hasn’t touched the empty chair in front of him, and he doesn’t now as he reaches behind it. The case is lighter than he expects, and he carries it with reverence that matches his uncertainty. Balancing it on his legs, he toys with the zipper for a moment, caressing the worn metal between his thumb and forefinger.Crossover between BBC Sherlock and the Greek tragedy Orpehus and Eurydice, wherein Eurydice is killed for her beauty and taken to the Underworld. Orpheus, being the son of Apollo (the God of Music and Medicine) travels to the Underworld to convince (via playing his lyre) Hades and Persephone to let Eurydice go. Orpheus then must travel with Eurydice behind him, not looking back, until they exit to the land of the living.This version of the tale ends better than the original.





	1. Chapter 1

“Sherlock?! Sherlock!!”

John denies that it happened for a week. And then, he hates himself for it.

Grey days turn into grey weeks turn into grey months. Melancholy settles heavily like rain-pregnant clouds, ominous and foreboding yet ultimately anticlimactic. This leaves John confused at first, then angry, and eventually despondent and empty.

Each moment bleeds into the next until they are indistinguishable. Food becomes ash in his mouth, and waking becomes a chore. Everything, in fact, becomes a chore in the face of John's anhedonia. Dust settles heavily in his life, and he can't be bothered to sweep it aside.

At the precise moment John decides that his gun offers an alternative that's at least temporarily more interesting, his eyes settle on the violin case tucked behind the empty chair in front of him. He’s never been particularly talented with musical instruments, and yet the violin case draws his gaze, hypnotizing him.

 _I could try_.

He sits entranced, for as long as he can, before something shifts inside him and he rises. He hasn’t touched the empty chair in front of him, and he doesn’t now as he reaches behind it. The case is lighter than he expects, and he carries it with reverence that matches his uncertainty. Balancing it on his legs, he toys with the zipper for a moment, caressing the worn metal between his thumb and forefinger.

 _I could try_.

With a tug, the zipper starts clicking along, one tooth at a time, until the case is opened and the mahogany instrument lays exposed on his lap. The dust that so thickly covers the rest of his life hasn’t touched the violin, which gleams even in the diluted light through the blinds from across the room. His doctor’s hands, calloused and shaking, hover over the strings while his heart thuds heavily behind his ribs. He knows what might happen if he does this, and he is nervous. A glance at the pistol on the table next to his tea solidifies his resolve, and so he reaches out with his index finger.

The sound of the single, plucked note reverberates in the room, the first hint of color in his world of grey. Something hard within him shows the thinnest of hairline fractures, even though he lies to himself about it. Another note sings, a lower pitch this time, and the crack splinters into two. John sits like this for an indeterminate amount of time, his eyes seeing nothing and his fingers creating the music that’s been gone from his life since that day.

A few days pass, and John continues his ritual of plucking at Sherlock’s unused violin every time he considers his pistol. After a week, the days seem less grey, and John decides that he ought to put the pistol back under his bed, lest Mrs. Hudson come across it. Every time the zipper clicks along, unlocking his sanity, he hears the music that once filled his life. Haunting, terrible pieces that broke open his heart and made him weep silently to himself while he hid in his room, thinking of the war. Bright, melodic songs that reminded him of his childhood and the joy he felt while running alongside his sister in the field behind his grandparents’ house. He hears this music as if it were surrounding him, and his fingers tremble with the intensity of the memory.

He stares at the bow.

_I could try._

John knows he watched Sherlock do this. He watched him, with eyes unseeing, as Sherlock took up the rosin and prepared his bow, ready to pull another melody from the taut metal strings. John knows he watched, so he mimics the movements, sweeping and sliding the small block of pine resin along the horsehair until it feels ready. He sets it down next to his teacup and returns his focus to the bow.

He _knows_ he watched Sherlock do this.

With a trembling hand, he brings the instrument under his chin. The angle is uncomfortable, and he wonders if he’s doing it incorrectly. But no, this is how _he_ did it, and therefore it must be right. His other arm rises to hover, uncertain, in the air, before setting it down gently on top of the strings.

John breathes.

And then, he plays.

The dust swirls in the sunlight streaming in from the exposed windows, dancing with the simple chord he produces. It isn’t a melody, and yet it feels melodic as he draws the bow again and again across the strings, experimenting with the angle and positioning of his fingers. Note after note fills the space, until there’s a timid knock at the door. John startles, ashamed of his secret, and brings the instrument down to his lap.

“Oh, I thought--but of course not. I’m sorry, dear,” Mrs. Hudson titters without entering the room.

John closes his stinging eyes and sighs. The hard thing inside him, full of cracks now, aches.

The door shuts with a quiet click.

The zipper whirrs quickly this time, closing up the case. John still doesn’t touch the unused chair in front of him as he tucks the instrument behind it. The curtains swish as their ties are undone and they thud heavily against each other, blacking out the room once more.

A week passes.

Every moment he’s awake, John stares at the case. He feels drawn to it, and it irritates him. He wants to throw it away, this last vestige of his former life, but he knows he won’t. Finally, as the thought of his pistol passes through his mind one too many times, he stands, clenching his fists.

 _I could try_.

The moment he feels the smooth wood beneath his worn fingertips, John releases the breath he’s been holding, and the cracks inside him splinter further. He brings the instrument to his chin, raises his bow, and plays.

The song that erupts is playful at first, pleasant and sweet and full of promise. There’s a quiet protest in the back of his mind, one that reminds him that he does not know what to do. But the music continues, his fingers moving like Sherlock’s would, because he watched him do this. Again, and again, he watched.

The music stops, and John’s heart pounds. Convinced he’s lost his mind, he picks up the instrument again, the bow hovering in the air.

Something inside him cracks fully open and he pours every feeling into the strings. Melancholy, heartbreak, and despair flood out of him, filling the room.

He cries his first tears.

He doesn’t stop playing.

Eventually, he sleeps, his aching hands clutched tight around the neck of the violin, fingertips swollen from overuse. He falls deeply into slumber, this being the first time he’s rested peacefully in longer than he knows.

In his dreams, John is confronted with a faceless giant, dressed in shimmering iridescent robes and holding a lyre. The warmth he feels from this giant is indescribable, a glow that focuses on his heart and gives him the slightest glimmer of _hope_. John is not as skeptical in his dreams, so he accepts this hope as a panacea, and he feels a tremendous calm wash over him.

“Seek your love in the realm of Hades,” the giant tells him with a gentle voice.

John knows this is a dream, but he feels his hope grow. “How? What do I do?” he asks.

“Mycroft knows the way. Play for him, and he will understand,” the giant answers, touching John on the shoulder. It reminds him of his father on the day he left for the war, giving advice one last time. He smiles at the memory and at the giant in front of him, until familiar self-doubts full of failure and loathing surface to gnaw at him.

“I am afraid,” he responds, surprised at how easy it seems to talk with this giant.

The giant plucks at his lyre, and for a moment is replaced with Sherlock, head surrounded by a halo of dark curls and eyes full of tears, plucking at his violin. “John,” he says, and the rich baritone fills John’s head and reverberates through his core. “Save me,” he pleads.

John wants to scream _I tried!_

Sherlock somehow knows, and he shakes his head. “Save me, now.”

Everything inside John that’s been closed off and hardened shatters, and he’s hit with a flood that makes him tremble. “I could try,” he finally agrees, reaching out for his beloved.

The doctor wakes, his heart pounding and skin slick with sweat, disoriented. He focuses on breathing, and when he finally returns to himself fully, he knows what to do.

The next morning, he showers, shaves, and stands in front of his wardrobe with a towel around his waist for much too long. John does not know what season it is, and his chest grows heavy with shame. His thoughts swirl like dark clouds, determined to convince him that he is deluding himself if he believes the giant of his dreams.

Sherlock is gone. John knows this. He watched. He watches still, every time he closes his eyes and feels the prickle of heat on his neck and the choke of a sob in his throat.

But John knows his promise, and so he checks the weather by looking outside and gets dressed to go see Mycroft.

The handle of the violin case is his anchor as he makes it down the steps. It is his salvation as he opens the door to the outside world. London passes by quickly, the rush and noise of the city overwhelming after such isolation. Several times, when the lights are too bright or the sounds are too loud, John considers turning back. But, the violin case in his hand keeps him steady, calming his beating heart and moving his feet until he arrives at the Diogenes club.

He walks up to the host of the club, and sighs. The host stares, expecting. John crouches to set down the violin case, wary of releasing it, when a pair of familiar wingtip shoes enter his line of sight. He freezes, hand still curled around the handle, uncertain. His breath, hot in his lungs, aches against his ribs as he looks up through his lashes and sees Mycroft, a hand outstretched in welcome. Perhaps he knew John would arrive today. Perhaps he was visited by the giant as well. John knows this is a ridiculous thought, but he has it anyway, hoping it might be true. Hoping he might not be as crazy as he feels.

They enter a secluded room containing a structured leather chair, a small lamp, and a table. Mycroft motions with his hand and takes a seat, his fingers interlaced in his lap while he waits.

“You know why I’m here,” John tells him, wincing at the sound of his own voice. It’s the first time he’s heard himself speak outside of his dream, and he nearly forgets how.  Mycroft merely nods, and John’s stomach twists inside itself for a moment while he sets the violin case on the table and touches the zipper. His fingers tremble as he pulls it along, the teeth clicking apart slowly. The noise seems to echo around the room, around his head, and he shakes as the case opens with a soft thud.

The soft yellow spill from the lamp makes the violin glow, the mahogany wood gleaming red as John caresses it with the tips of his fingers. He does not dare look at his audience while he releases the bow from its place. Retrieving the rosin, he brings it to the horsehair and slides it along, because he watched Sherlock do it. His veins sing with anxiety as he raises the violin to his chin until the image of his love fills his mind.

_“Save me, now.”_

The song that erupts from John's instrument fills the room, a song of longing and despair, of a pleading hope that things can change. John plays, quickly lost in the melody until he feels calmed by the rhythm of the bow as it slides on the strings. He dares a glance at Mycroft, who is so moved that silent tears stream down his ruddy cheeks. John doesn't stop.  

Finally, his fingers throb and his neck aches. He wants to keep playing, but he knows it's time. Mycroft stands, a hand reaching up to sweep away lingering tears, and approaches the table.

“I didn't believe it,” he whispers.

John nods. He didn't believe it either, but he doesn't need to say it out loud.

Mycroft gestures for John to follow, so he packs up the violin and shuffles after him. Their path winds through the Diogenes club, heading down several flights of stairs until they are far underground. John shivers at the chill in the air, clutching his possession tightly in his fist. The action soothes him, though he isn't sure why.

They reach the end of their travel in a hallway that goes nowhere. Mycroft sighs, placing his hand flat on the wall. “I tried, you know. I begged, I cried. I got on my knees. Nothing worked.”

“Why not?” John asks, his voice a whisper.

“It's not my journey to take, nor my case to plead,” Mycroft answers, his voice choked with emotion. “Not this time.”

Suddenly, John understands. He wonders if Sherlock felt like this when finding a solution--reality shifting sideways while the connections of the web came into focus. He imagines Sherlock's face, the perfect set of lips formed in an _O_ of insight. It _must_ have felt like this. The corners of his mouth twist, fighting a smile at the memory, and he crouches down to open the violin case.

John stands, ready, and gives his companion one last look. Mycroft nods, and John begins, again playing his mournful tune. It reverberates in his core, and the thing inside him that’s now shattered begins to glow as he plays. As the music moves through the room, John closes his eyes, swaying like Sherlock used to. Beside him, Mycroft gasps, and John keeps playing, pouring more and more of himself into the melody until he is openly weeping, soft sobs racking his chest and making his body curl in on itself. Unable to keep playing, and he doubles forward, dropping the violin from his chin and coughing. It is then that he sees, blurry-eyed, that the wall in front of him is no longer a wall.

It is a door.

A heavy, iron door, with intricate pictures and scrollwork covering it. At the top, there are symbols that John recognizes as Greek, though he cannot read them. He looks to Mycroft, who is reaching towards the door but not touching it, his fingers hovering over the pictures.

“You’ve done it,” Mycroft whispers. “Now you must go convince him.”

John places the violin in its case and zips it closed, then stands upright. “Convince who?” he asks, though he does not know if he wants the answer.

“Hades. If you play for him, maybe...,” Mycroft trails off, finger touching a particularly gruesome image featuring a lean man with a head of curls being pulled spread-eagle by four small demons with large teeth and nasty claws.

“I do not know the way.” John stares at the picture, and the more he looks at it the more he understands. He sighs, feeling a weight settle in his bones, and nods.

“You can save him, John. You can save him, now,” Mycroft pleads, his eyes wild.

“Not you?” John asks, though he isn’t sure why. Perhaps it’s fear. Perhaps it’s doubt. John doesn’t want to unravel it.

“I am not the one. I am not strong enough,” his companion replies sadly. His hand drops away from the door and he looks down at his feet.

John’s chest aches, raw and exposed, as he tries to take a breath. There’s a sharp pain behind his ribs, and he feels like screaming _I’ve_ **_never_ ** _been strong enough!!_

And then, the picture of the man being tortured seems to come to life in John’s mind, pleading with him. _“Save me, now.”_

“John, please,” Mycroft begs with a hard swallow.

He nods, and pulls the violin case closer to him. “I could try.” Though he says nothing, Mycroft exudes gratitude as he steps back and watches. John reaches with his free hand to the large iron ring, lifting it out of the latch. With a shuddering breath, he pushes on the door and it swings slowly inward, the area beyond it a pitch black void that seems to swallow the dim light spilling into it from the hallway. John is about to take a step when Mycroft places a hand on his arm, stopping him.

“Wait,” he says while reaching into his waistcoat pocket. He retrieves a golden coin covered in bizarre symbols, and holds it out for John. “You need this. I’ve had it since I was a child, never knowing what it was for. In my dream...well, he said you needed it.”

John nods and takes it, placing it in his own pocket, before pulling away to enter the realm beyond the door.


	2. Chapter 2

What lies inside is terrifying, and John forces himself to ignore the alarms in his head and the pounding of his heart. As soon as he clears the path of the enormous door, it slams shut with a sonorous clang that shakes the earth beneath his feet. John fights against the twist in his stomach and takes step after step forward. Over time, his eyes adjust to the darkness, relying solely on the dim light from somewhere off in the distance.

It's then that he sees _them_.

Nine... _things._

John's step falters as he squints, trying to make out the forms on his path. As he looks, attempting to identify the disfigured shapes, it dawns on him that what he sees is bodies. Bodies that look human, except...wrong. Something is wrong and he can't seem to identify what it is, so he takes another step forward.

And another.

And another.

Until finally, he _hears_ them. It’s quiet at first, a low moan that seems to vibrate in his bones. As he gets closer, the moan turns more guttural, deep-seated and full of agony. He hears an occasional whimper or gasp, and he realizes that what he hears are the sounds of death and suffering. The sounds seem to echo around him from all sides, and he feels his jaw clench with anxiety. Slowly, the creatures emerge from the darkness, twisted and deformed as they circle around him with curious eyes.

They were once humans and are now distorted into _something_ _else_ and the thought makes John shudder. Suddenly, they begin reaching for him with scab-covered, bent fingers. They pull at his clothing, fingernails hooking into the fabric and stretching it as he tries to lean away from them. It is only when one of them tries to take the violin that he stops in his travel and plants his feet, yanking the case up to his chest.

“No!”

They stop, their hands dropping to their sides, and cock their heads.

“You don’t belong here,” one of them, covered in pustules and sores, whispers with a raspy voice.

“What is wrong with you?” John asks, examining the creatures around him more closely now. What he sees makes his stomach churn, and he fights the urge to look at his feet, knowing he must face them if he is to move forward.

“We are everything mortals fear,” a perpetually yawning creature responds, its cheeks streaked in tears.

John frowns, looking around them, and announces, “I am not afraid of any of you.”

“Then, what is wrong with _you?_ ” they all ask, peering curiously at him.

“I need to see Hades,” he replies, voice stronger than he actually feels. “He took someone from me and--”

The creatures around him gasp and wheeze, doubling over awkwardly until one of them chokes out, “Hades takes no one. Hades keeps _everyone_. What makes you think you can change that? It is not your time, mortal. Go back to the living and wait.”

John shakes his head slowly, walking further down the path. “You can't stop me,” he says, a bubble of rage simmering in his stomach. He forgot what it felt like, being angry. He forgot how it burns, deep in his core. He forgot for a long time, but he doesn’t forget now.

The creature closest to him reaches again for the violin, and the rage inside him doubles. He whips the case away, then grabs the zipper with fingers shaking, not with fear this time but with wrath. The instrument slots comfortably under his chin and he does not hesitate to bring the bow to strings and play.

The moment the harsh sound erupts from his hands the humanoids shrink back, cowering together as a group while covering their ears. He plays and plays, reminded of the horrible songs Sherlock would play when frustrated about a case, and backs slowly down the path away from his assailants. He watched Sherlock do this, watched him drive people away with sharp-tongued insults and screeching violin music. He watched him do this, and he knows he can do it too. So he scratches on strings, uncaring about the pain he might be causing, until the creatures fade into the void, too damaged to follow him. John smiles at the hum in his veins and stows the violin back in its case, continuing on his journey.

As John walks, the light that’s been his beacon grows brighter until he reaches its source: an enormous elm tree covered in glowing orbs suspended beneath each leaf. The tree’s branches are gnarled and twisted, reaching up so high that he cannot tell where they end and the rest of the pitch black surrounding him begins. John sighs, relieved to let go of some tension, and drops to sit against the tree trunk.

As he sits, he thinks.

John thinks and thinks, letting his head fall back on his shoulders and eyes slide shut. He wonders if he’s finally gone mad with grief, then shakes his head at the idea, knowing he isn’t nearly creative enough to concoct such a complicated hallucination. He wonders what Sherlock might say about this. Would Sherlock trust his own observations, despite their absurdity?

_This is futile._

John opens his eyes to stare at the orbs twinkling above him and remembers laying under the Christmas tree as a child, watching the lights until he fell asleep, waiting for St. Nicholaus. He always woke in his bed and imagined the jolly man carrying him down the hall. John smiles, mesmerized, until he notices that the orbs are doing more than twinkle.

Inside them, there are tiny moving pictures. Perplexed, John kneels and reaches up, pulling down a branch so he may examine the orb closest to him. He thinks he sees Sherlock inside, and he blinks a few times to clear his vision. Another glance, and he sees Sherlock again. This time, he’s holding a small child, a huge smile plastered on his face. The child has sandy hair and dark blue-brown eyes, and Sherlock holds him with the ease of a parent. The vision shifts, and John sees himself joining them in an embrace.

It’s a dream he’s had, a wish of what _could_ be, and seeing it in front of him makes his chest burn and his throat close up. He releases the branch and reaches for another one. The orb here shows Sherlock again, but this time he’s much older, silver strands woven into his black curls. He looks well-fed and healthy, and he’s bending over a beehive. In the distance, John sees a small cottage, and he knows what this dream is.

A knot works its way through his stomach, twisting up his intestines, as orb after orb shows a million futures that he lost in an instant. Each time he looks, he sees another moment of false dreams, and the ache in his chest quickly becomes too much to bear. He gathers up the violin and stands, brushing off his jeans and heading back to the path. A single glance back shows the orbs pulsating, seemingly calling to him. Without thinking, his feet carry him towards them, step after step, until he trips on a tree root and the spell is momentarily broken.

“No!” he shouts, knowing that he’s shouting at a tree but not caring. He needs to hear himself say it, needs to remind himself of his goal here. He can’t be caught up in the _what ifs_ of his past and future. “No,” he says again quietly to himself, shutting his eyes. John returns to the path and continues onward, occasionally shaking his head to clear the distressing images of the tree.

John walks, not knowing how far he goes, until he hears the unmistakable sound of water rushing over rocks. He moves towards it until he comes upon a small dock jutting out from the rocky shore of a large, tumultuous river. The water swirls around the slimy boulders, and he is captivated by it. He tries to see across the river, but is unable. It is then that he notices an object moving in the distance, illuminated by a small lantern hanging from a post. As it moves closer, he realizes it's a boat, being propelled by a lone oarsman standing at the stern. It bobs and weaves around the rocks, riding the current, while it approaches the dock. He readies himself for another fight, hand clutched tightly around the violin case handle and breath quickening in his lungs.

The boat bumps gently against the dock and the oarsman steps off gracefully, tying it down with a thick hemp rope. He strides up to John, stopping a few feet away, and holds out his hand. The oarsman looks exactly as John imagines most grizzled sea captains do--a bushy white beard, tattered and torn but comfortable and practical clothing, and clunky black boots. The man--if he is indeed a man--has milky white eyes and a perpetual sneer on his downturned, chapped lips. John wonders if he has cataracts, or if he is blind. He doesn’t want to find out.

“No passage without payment, mortal,” the gruff man comments bluntly, looking up at John from beneath his pronounced brow and scraggly eyebrows.

John frowns, then remembers the coin given to him by Mycroft. He retrieves it from his pocket, and the oarsman seems pleased as he deposits it with a _clink_ into his change-purse. Without another glance, he turns back to clunk his way across the wooden dock and get into the boat, again standing in the stern with a hand on the long oar that disappears into the dark waters below.

With a huff, John nods to himself and follows, climbing gingerly into the boat and sitting on the single bench. The oarsman loosens the line from the iron hook it was secured to and yanks it back, letting it drop down at his feet. A few strokes later, and he maneuvers the boat away from the dock, navigating it around the threat of the boulders and out into the open water of the rushing river. The boat sways, tipping from side to side as it bucks and heaves, and John places the violin on his lap and grabs the gunnels to steady himself. He’s never liked boats, and this is no different.

“What’s your name?” he shouts back to the oarsman over the howling wind whipping at his ears.

The oarsman grunts as he steers around another collection of sharp rocks. The water splashes up around the gunnels, the spray catching John in the eye. He blinks it away, irritated, and resigns himself to a silent and potentially deadly ride.

“Charon,” the man behind him says suddenly several minutes later.

“John. John Wat--”

“Watson, yeah,” Charon interrupts with another grunt. “He said you’d come.”

The hairs on the back of John’s neck bristle, tingles crawling up the back of his scalp. “Who?” he asks, reminded of the hope that the giant from his dreams gave him.

Charon doesn’t answer. Right as John is about to ask again, wondering if perhaps he wasn’t heard, a cold, wet hand clutches his, blunt fingernails cutting crescent moons into the back of his hand. He yanks both of his hands away immediately with a shout while cringing at the sound of fingernails scraping along the wooden hull of the boat. Behind him, Charon barks out a harsh laugh, then starts humming a tune John doesn’t recognize.

Chancing a glance at the swirling vortexes below, he sees the occasional flash of ghostly white beneath the surface. The boat bucks, and John retreats to the middle of his bench, curling in on himself and clutching the violin case to his chest while he closes his eyes and breathes.

He remembers being in the plane, ready to drop into a warzone and doing exactly this: breathing and focusing on calming his stuttering heart and the pounding in his head. His ears are hot, but he knows this will pass once the boat is safely across the river. He swallows around the familiar tide of nausea in the back of his throat, willing his stomach to cooperate, and takes another deep breath. John knows he is trembling, so he clenches his fists and plants his feet as firmly as he can in the bottom of the boat while he waits.

Finally, the back and forth motion of the oar stops and the boat glides gently through the water until it hits another dock. John opens his eyes as Charon steps out of the boat and ties it off, again with the hemp rope.

“Up, mortal,” he commands, reaching out a hand to help John.

John accepts it, repulsed by how icy Charon’s skin is, and asks, “Why does everyone keep calling me mortal?”

Charon laughs again, a harsh and grating sound. “You don’t belong here,” he said. “But you knew that.”

He hops back into the boat, yanking the line with him, and leaves John standing on the dock with more questions than answers. Turning towards land, he strides off the dock to follow the path again, hoping it heads towards Hades but knowing he has no guarantees of anything anymore.

Without warning, the wind is knocked out of him and he falls flat on his face, the violin case flying out of his arms to slide across the gravel path several feet away. There’s an enormous pressure on his back, and the sounds of snarling and snapping fill the air around him. Hot breath washes over the back of his neck, accompanied by droplets of warm, slimy liquid on his skin. Once the initial shock of the assault wears off, John’s battle instincts kick in and he immediately starts bucking and twisting, attempting to get the beast off of him. He manages to startle the creature enough that it lifts off of him and he rolls over, only to come face to face with a colossal dog with three giant heads. He scrabbles out from underneath the animal, narrowly avoiding a bite from the middle head’s jaws by kicking out at it, and scuttles over to the violin case as quickly as he can. His feet slide on the gravel and he prays that he’s moving fast enough.

As soon as his hand is wrapped firmly around the handle, he pushes himself off the ground to stand and begins running, pebbles flying out from under his feet. The blood pounds in his ears and his breath feels tight in his chest, burning through his lungs as he body scrambles to catch up with the flood of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Behind him, he can hear the thumping of the beast’s paws as it chases after him, the heads viciously snapping and growling. John runs and runs, not knowing where to go or what to do, until he reaches a large meadow filled with shadowy, grey people with black eyes and no mouths.

With a glance over his shoulder, John sees the creature start to slow down as it approaches the meadow. Grinning at his luck, he follows suit, turning to look back in front of him just as he runs right through one of the grey people. “Bloody hell!” he shouts, then realizes his victim didn’t seem to notice his assault. Another quick look behind him confirms that the enormous, three-headed dog hasn’t followed him, so John stops to catch his breath, doubling over with his hands on his knees while he pants to himself. The shadow people continue milling around him, unblinking black eyes seeing nothing as they move. Once recovered, he stands upright and takes in the bizarre scene surrounding him, unsure what to make of it.

“Excuse me?” he asks someone as they walk by. They glance at him, but don’t stop moving. No one seems to care that he’s there, so he continues on, weaving through the crowd of aimless wanderers until he exits the meadow, finding the path again. When he turns back to look at where he was, all of the shadow people are facing him and pointing beyond, to the left of where he was headed.

He hopes they’re trying to help, and doesn’t let himself imagine what horrors he could be heading towards as he follows their direction.

John walks. He wonders how long he’s been here, then shakes his head at himself. It doesn’t matter how long. There’s only one thing that matters, and he smiles to himself as he thinks about Charon’s comment.

_“He said you’d come.”_

The tiny flicker of hope, low in his belly, grows into a small flame, burning bright and hot inside him as he walks. It would be just like Sherlock, upon arriving in the Underworld, to just _know_ John would follow him, try to save him. Or join him, John supposes. He could be going deeper and deeper to his own death. John doesn’t mind.

The thought terrifies him, but he ignores it.

In the distance, a warm glow bleeds over the horizon, illuminating another long plain filled with darkened, blurry objects. John sighs, his hand tightening on the violin case, and marches forward, pulling resolve from somewhere deep inside him despite the tremble in his fingers. As he approaches the field, he scans the group of shadow figures and notices that they have tears continually streaming down their cheeks. The area between their eyebrows is wrinkled, and their mouths downturned as they wander, full of grief and regret. John’s throat tightens as he watches them, the last several months of his life materializing in front of his eyes.

Perhaps this is where he belongs, in this field of mourners. Perhaps this is where he will end up. He knows that it would be a better option than continuing to live in the numb purgatory he’s drifted through since losing Sherlock.

John finds himself swallowing around a lump in his throat, his chest threatening to spill open with months of unshed tears, when he sees a particularly bereft shadow with a dark halo of curls around its head. His chest aches as he stops breathing, his free hand coming to his open mouth in shock.


	3. The Elm From Which False Dreams Cling

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/30157799807/in/dateposted-public/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate each and every kudos/comment/subscription! More of the story will be posted on Sunday. Thank you all!!


	4. Chapter 4

“Sherlock.”

It’s the first time he’s said it, and his vocal chords nearly forget how to make the sounds in his name. His voice comes out as a croak, a strangled gasp full of pain and grief. Without realizing it, he moves through the crowd of shadow people, tunnel vision keeping him focused on reaching his beloved.

Sherlock’s hands fist in his curls, yanking and tugging as he walks small, aimless circles. The tears flow freely from his unseeing eyes, and his face is contorted into a scowl. John reaches him and attempts to take him in his arms, hoping to soothe, but his hands flow through his form as if he were made of smoke. Sherlock continues his circuit, not noticing John as he cries and cries while tugging at his hair. The sight of him in such pain feels like a stab in the heart, and John’s chest aches while he gives in to the prickle behind his eyes and lets the tears flow. Sinking to his knees, he sobs, his body shaking as he collapses in on himself like a dying star. John allows himself this moment to feel everything he’s kept hidden in the dark spaces between his ribs, buried deep inside him behind every barrier he could construct in those early days, and it threatens to undo him entirely. He feels ill, and he hates it. He hates that he has become such a pathetic man, pining over his best friend and would-be lover.

Once the anguish flows out of him, John feels the rage of lost control and lets loose a howl that seems to echo around him and bring pause to every creature that hears it. 

Every creature except the one he wants to hear it the most.

Every creature except Sherlock, who keeps turning those tight circles and pulling at his hair.

“That’s enough, Sherlock,” John snaps, angry that he’s finally found him and is being completely ignored. “Look at me,” he demands, reaching again for him. The adrenaline floods John’s veins as he realizes that he’s failing, and he shakes at the thought. “No,” he says quietly to himself. “No, Sherlock, you’re supposed to...I’m supposed to…”

The violin case bumps against John’s thigh, and he closes his eyes as he understands. Dropping down to a squat, his trembling fingers wrap around the zipper and pull it open, tooth by tooth, until the instrument is exposed. He snatches up the rosin and starts preparing the bow, looking up every so often to see if Sherlock has noticed. He hasn’t, and John isn’t surprised, so he picks up the violin and stands, settling into the right posture but unsure what to play and feeling suddenly very nervous.

As he wracks his brain, he takes another look at Sherlock, distraught and trapped in his own mind, and then he knows. Taking a deep breath, he raises the bow and begins.

The song is one that Sherlock played every time John awoke from nightmares of desert wars and monsters, of explosions and blood, his heart pounding and sweat dripping off his forehead and drenching the sheets beneath him. It feels like a lullaby, and perhaps it was, though John isn’t sure. What he does know is that it brought him back to Baker street as it floated up through the floorboards, reminding him of safety and comfort. So he plays and plays, repeating the song and remembering how it felt to be trapped in his own horrid memories, being walked slowly out of them by the gentle melody coming from the violin in Sherlock’s hands. It felt like a lover’s caress, calming his heart and soothing his soul with warmth and affection. The song flows around them, and soon John glances up to see Sherlock standing stock still, staring at him with vulnerability and love.

John's heart sings, but he keeps playing, fearful that if he stops he'll lose Sherlock completely. He plays until his fingers ache and his hands cramp, backing slowly out of the meadow while he has his detective's attention. Step by step they move, a deliberate waltz through the other shadows until they finally exit to the path. Once his shoes kick aside some pebbles, John pauses, letting his arms fall to his sides. The burn in his muscles is intense, the blood aching and throbbing through his veins as he rests. 

Sherlock copies John, standing close in front of him. The expression on his face is open, his dark eyes soft as he shares a small, private smile. Then, he reaches up, long fingers trailing John's cheekbone and down along his jaw. John imagines he can feel it, leaning into the invisible touch. Sherlock’s smile grows, his palm flattening against the side of John's neck. The doctor’s heart thuds heavily inside his chest at the tenderness in Sherlock’s movements. He wonders if it's real, this perceived affection, or merely a trick of the bizarre circumstances they’re in. 

His body yearns for more.

Sherlock gestures down at the violin, and John shrugs, tucking the instrument under his bow arm and rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Dunno how. Just sort of happened,” he explains. Looking up through his eyelashes, he glances at Sherlock, who is again staring in wonderment at him. “Aww, come on. It's nothing.” John knows that if Sherlock could talk he would tell John to stop being an idiot, given the expression on his face. “Let's see if we can't get you out of here, hmm?” he asks, eager to return to Baker street and explore this new depth to their relationship. After a couple lazy blinks, Sherlock nods and points down the path to a large stone structure in the distance. 

Hades. Of course.

The pair set off after John puts away his instrument, walking closer to each other than they did before, and John wishes he could interlace his fingers with Sherlock's. He wonders, if they make it out of this, if Sherlock will let him.

_ I could try. _

_ I  _ **_will_ ** _ try. _

As they get closer, John realizes the structure is an outdoor altar housing two huge thrones, surrounded by small stone pillars covered in ornate carvings. He unconsciously leans closer to Sherlock as they approach Hades’ area, his hand tightening around the handle of the violin case. Finally, they reach the altar and Hades materializes in front of them, seated next to a breathtaking woman. 

“John Watson,” Hades bellows, the stone pillars shaking at the volume of his voice. John feels it in his chest, and a familiar tingle of adrenaline courses down to his fingertips. 

“Hades, hmm?” John answers, doing his best to sound more confident than he feels. “If you know who I am, then you know who he is.” He gestures behind him at Sherlock. “He doesn't belong here,” John finishes, planting his feet. “He's coming home. With  _ me _ .”

Hades gapes a moment, leaning back as the woman next to him whispers in his ear. They laugh together, and John’s blood boils. He focuses on the feeling of his breath in his lungs, trying to calm down before he does or says anything he might regret, and raises his eyebrows at the couple in front of him. “Problem?”

“No one leaves here,” Hades replies, over-enunciating each word. Cocking his head, he extends his right hand, palm up, towards Sherlock. His fingers curl inwards, beckoning the detective, who begins a slow, stuttering walk towards the altar. John watches, helpless, as Sherlock makes it to the throne and kneels in front of Hades, head bowed. 

“Let him go!” John shouts, taking a step forward. 

Hades narrows his eyes and sneers, keeping eye contact with John while flicking a single finger toward Sherlock, who collapses onto the ground. 

“Stop it!” John barks, the blood thudding in his ears. Panting, he looks around him for some sort of answer or escape from what’s happening, and finds nothing helpful until his gaze falls to his feet and sees the violin case resting against his thigh. “I...have a proposition,” he says cautiously, eyes flicking between Hades and Sherlock, who’s still lying prone on the ground. 

His fingers find the worn zipper pull and start clicking the case open, tooth by tooth. The woman next to Hades leans forward, curious about what’s happening. As John removes the instrument and bow, the woman whispers again in Hades’ ear, a slinky smile curling the corners of her lips. 

“My wife, Persephone, wishes to hear you play,” Hades says, resigned. 

John, though his heart beats furiously in his ribcage, raises his chin and smirks. “I’m sure she would. Like I said, I have a proposition.”

“You want to hear the mortal play this badly?” Hades asks his wife with an exasperated sigh. She nods in reply, settling back in her chair and watching John carefully. Hades purses his lips, then nods. “Your freedom for a song that moves my wife to tears with its beauty. If you are able to do that, then I will allow  _ you _ to leave. Do you accept?”

John shakes his head. “No. Not good enough. What about Sherlock?”

“He belongs here. He is dead, and his soul is destined to wander the Vale of Mourning for the rest of eternity,” Hades explains with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

“The Vale of Mourning? And that is…?” 

“The place for souls who have died and experienced unrequited love. He is forced to wander those fields because he loved you more than life itself, and you never provided him proof of any shared feelings,” the God of the Underworld replies. He looks down his nose at Sherlock, then adds, “Perhaps I could be swayed if you can prove your love to him.”

“Anything,” John states firmly, not missing a beat.

At this, Persephone’s gaze softens. “Anything? You should be careful what you promise, mortal,” she recommends with a sweet smile. “It may not be something you wish to follow through with.”

John pauses, a weariness settling in his bones, and he sighs. “I mean it. Anything for Sherlock Holmes. I do love him, and there is nothing I wouldn’t do to be with him again. Wherever that ends up being.”

Hades’ lips pull across his bared teeth in an evil grin. “Play first. Then we will discuss the terms for the release of your beloved.”

Distrusting but feeling trapped, John frowns and brings the instrument up to his chin, considering what to play for Persephone. He settles on ignoring his thoughts and instead brings up the feelings he had while looking at the orbs of false dreams in the elm tree, allowing them to guide his hand into a melody full of pain, hope, and fear. He sways, feeling the music flow through his body as he closes his eyes, losing himself as he knows he should.

When he finishes, his cheeks are damp and the muscles in his upper back burn. John opens his eyes to find Persephone sitting in her chair, a hand covering her mouth and tears streaming down her cheeks. He drops his arms to his sides and smiles, relieved. Persephone places a gentle hand on Hades’ forearm as he looks over at her. She nods, some unsaid message passing between them. 

Hades finally looks back at John and waves a hand at him. “Well done. You may go.”

“I’m not leaving without him,” John counters, looking down at Sherlock while placing the violin back in its case. His heart aches at the thought of losing him again. “What do you want me to do?” 

“Ah, mortal, see,  _ that _ is what you must do,” Hades replies with a smirk, his arms folded across his chest. “You will walk away, and I give you my word that Sherlock will follow you.”

“How do I know it’s not a trick?” John snaps.

Hades again smiles, and John fights the urge to punch him in the face. “You will trust, or you won’t. That is up to you. Sherlock gave himself to you every day, trusting that you would do the same for him. Yet, in death, he was sentenced to the Vale of Mourning. What does that say about your commitment to him?”

John’s mouth drops open as he attempts to come up with an argument. He knows there isn’t one, so he snaps it shut again and purses his lips.

Hades shrugs and glances down at Sherlock. “You should be thanking me for this chance, John.”

“Go, now,” Persephone urges. “Before he changes his mind. I will show you the way,” she says, hopping down from her throne and walking over to John. She stands at least a half metre taller than him, evidence that she belongs in the realm of the Gods. “Come with me,” she adds, taking him by the arm. 

John pauses, staring at Sherlock as he lays flat at Hades’ feet, and tries to remember what his face looked like when he first noticed John playing for him in the Vale of Mourning. He focuses on that face, knowing that he might see it again soon, and finally looks away, following Persephone. She brings him out of the area around the altar, pointing down a never-ending path. 

“There,” she says. Looking behind him, she smiles. “Your love is with you. Move quickly, and do what Hades said. Do not look back, or you will lose him forever. Trust that he will follow you. Trust that he loves you as you love him, and go.”

With a nod of thanks, John starts off on the path to leave. He strains to hear the sound of another set of footsteps behind him, then remembers that in Sherlock’s current form he does not make any sound. Frustrated, he continues on, marching quickly. The violin case thuds against his thigh. His shoes crunch on the gravel. He can’t hear or see Sherlock, and it kills him.

He walks, and he thinks.

What he thinks about is depressing, so he tries to stop and focus on what he sees around him. It’s too dark to see much, though occasionally a dark shadow creeps in the corner of his vision and he fights the urge to look back at it. He hopes it’s Sherlock, still following him, though he knows he has no guarantees. 

After walking for at least an hour, John pauses to take a break. He places the heels of his hands flat against his lower back at the top of his trousers and pushes, pulling his shoulder blades together at his spine. Several vertebrae pop and crack, relieving some tension. He takes a deep breath, sweeping his arms out straight while he continues stretching, feeling his age in his bones. He considers saying something to Sherlock. Hades did not say he couldn’t talk to him, though he knows Sherlock can’t respond. In the end, he decides against it, nervous that he might forget and try to catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s face if he begins. 

Instead, he starts walking again. At one point, the path goes by another shadow field, though the souls in this area seem relaxed and content, sipping wine and eating bread. The eyes of these souls are still black, but it seems as though they are able to talk to each other in a way that John doesn’t understand. He stares for a moment, not understanding, then continues onward, focused on his goal of leaving this awful place with Sherlock.

John’s thoughts wander to thinking about what life might be like back at Baker street. He knows he tends to romanticize, so he’s wary of being too optimistic about what might happen between them once they return. He wonders if Sherlock will make the first move, or if he’ll continue to be reserved in his interest by making small gestures. John knows that Sherlock loves him. He’s always known, and he took it for granted, but he isn’t sure what Sherlock will be comfortable with once they return. Will he be open to romance? Dates? Affection? 

Will he want to share his bed with John?

Not knowing makes his heart pound and his cheeks burn, so he shakes the thoughts from his head and looks to the path at his feet, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Before long, he sees a glow in the distance, and he hopes it’s the exit from this wretched place. Behind him, he hears a strangled gasp, and he reflexively starts turning to look back. 

_ Just a peek. Just need to make sure he’s okay. _

As his chin reaches his shoulder, he hears Sherlock in his mind state firmly,  _ “Don’t, John.” _

His heart heavy, John stops and argues with himself.  _ What if you aren’t really there? I can’t lose you again. _

_ “John, trust me. I’m here with you.” _

There’s a prickle in his eyes, a sting from the tears he fights against, and he turns to face forward.  _ It’s too much.  _ The weariness of his journey floods through him.  _ I need to know, Sherlock. _

_ “John, try to trust me.” _

_ I suppose...I could try. _

_ “Not much farther.” _

The glow in the distance seems to pulsate, and John takes a deep breath and continues onward, spurred by Sherlock’s voice in his mind and the persistence that he used to call up when he was on 16 hour shifts in the Army, out on patrols. Often he would feel his bones start to creak and his muscles scream with exhaustion, and he somehow found the energy down within him to keep moving. So, he pulls from his reserves, digging deep in his soul to quiet his mind and push his body to its limits. He hums to himself, something he does as a distraction, repeating the lullaby he played for Sherlock earlier. Respite washes over him, warm and soothing, and he loses himself in the tune.

Finally, after an eternity of walking through the void, the glowing doorway is directly in front of him, framed in beautiful, shining ivory. There is nothing but bright light on the other side, and John assumes it must exit somewhere in the land of the living. Above it, a sign hangs, written with the same bizarre lettering that he’d seen on the coin he handed Charon.

If he walks out of here and Sherlock doesn’t follow him, he knows he can’t come back. If he stays here with Sherlock, Hades will certainly return him to the Vale of Mourning, and Sherlock will never know the depth of John’s love for him. With a hard swallow, John throws his chest out and his shoulders back and marches forward.

_ There’s always my gun if this doesn’t work out. _

That’s the last thought he has.


	5. Epilogue

John wakes. He’s lying on the floor, and he doesn’t know why. He squints against the bright light above him, irritated at it as his eyes fight to adjust. There’s a deep ache in his back, and his cheeks are wet with too many tears. Lifting his head to look around, his awareness settles on his hand, which is clenched around the handle of the violin case.

The memories come flooding in, and his next thought makes him so nauseous he might vomit.

_Sherlock isn’t here._

Heart immediately pounding, he pops up to sit and look wildly around, confirming his fear.

_Sherlock isn’t--_

Quick footsteps behind him interrupt his panic.

Quick, _familiar_ footsteps.

The tears spring quickly to his eyes, his throat closing up as he tries to swallow around the swell in his chest.

“John!” a rich baritone shouts from behind him. “You’re awake!” Sherlock comes into view and kneels before him, his hands reaching out to John’s shoulders. They hover above, uncertainty on the detective’s face, until John lunges forward to tackle him. “John!” Sherlock gasps as he nearly falls backward, his arms encircling John’s shaking form in a tight hug.

After several long moments in embrace, John chokes out, “I thought I lost you.”

Sherlock, his nose in John’s hair, sighs hot air over his scalp. “You’ll never lose me, John,” he reassures, his voice tight with emotion. He plants a soft kiss on John’s head, then pulls away to stare him in the eyes. “I knew you would come for me.”

A flash of the moment he saw the violin behind Sherlock’s chair after months of deep depression comes to John’s mind, and he looks away, ashamed. “Sorry it took me so long,” he whispers.

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock replies, his eyes soft as he gazes at John. He removes a hand from John’s back and uses his index finger to bring John’s chin around to face him. “I cannot wait to hear you play for me.”

A flush creeps up John’s neck and cheeks, and he licks his bottom lip nervously. “No guarantees. I think...I’m not sure how it happened, and I don’t know if I can still do it. It felt like...something was helping me. Or someone. I don’t know, Sherlock. The whole thing...I don’t know.”

Slowly, Sherlock nods. Then, he leans forward to peer in John’s face. “May I...I’m not good at this, John, but I want to...that is, if you--”

“Oh, just kiss me already,” John interrupts, pushing forward the last bit of distance between them and sealing their lips together.

Sherlock breathes.

John sighs.

They smile into each other.

The violin case lays forgotten on the floor next to their knees, as hands grasp and fingers cling, desperate.

This new version of desperate is one that John likes, so he leans into it and forgets about his gun. He forgets about Hades, about the black-eyed Sherlock who couldn’t speak and tugged at his hair, about the tree of false dreams and the horrible monsters that he saw. He forgets about all of it in his beloved’s embrace, lips moving to cover skin with a million promises. John isn’t sure he can be what Sherlock needs, but he knows one thing.

 _I could try_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support! From my loyal fans to newcomers, I appreciate each and every one of you and hope this story was everything you wanted and more.


End file.
